


Healing Souls

by LadyWhiteKoiFish



Category: The Pianist (2002)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 03:45:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1536356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyWhiteKoiFish/pseuds/LadyWhiteKoiFish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Szpilman saves Hosenfeld from the Soviet prisoner-of-war camp and takes him home to live with him. SLASH!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Healing Souls

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Dedicated to YouThereintheTrunks on FF.Net.  
> Warnings: Historical slash.  
> Disclaimer: I do not own or claim to own any of these actors or characters in this story. Nothing written in this story ever really happened in real life. I make no monetary profit from this story. This all a work of FICTION.

Hosenfeld sat shivering on the cold, hard ground of the POW camp. The war was over and the Germans had lost, just like he had always thought, but never, even in his worst dreams, had he ever imagined it would end quite like this for him.

 

He rested his head on his knees which were drawn up close to his chest and wrapped his arms tightly around them. God, he felt miserable, and it wasn’t even because he was sitting in a feces filled camp with dead bodies surrounding him and guards who beat him regularly. No, that he could take. It was the pain of knowing that his family was dead. That he’d never be able to hold them in his arms again that really hurt him. It felt like a slow, sharp knife was carefully and painfully being twisted in his chest all the time. All the damn time.

 

_ God, please,  _ prayed Hosenfeld, eyes raised to the cloudy sky above,  _ have mercy on my soul. Take me out of this world. Please. _

 

He continued to look towards the skies, mouth forming the words to a prayer that never seemed to make it pass his lips, but was there none the less. Slowly, the clouds broke and poured forth their tears, washing over Hosenfeld as tears of his own slipped from his eyes. No one was coming for him, and what did it matter if they did? He had nothing to live for now anyway. His only hope was that the guards would kill him quickly and painlessly.

 

He heard a guard yell something in the distance, too tired to really pay attention, and soon there was more yelling, but it was getting harder to hear through the rushing sound of water hitting the ground. Soon, even the images began to blur around him as the rain fell harder and harder. Hosenfeld knew that after this rain he would most likely catch his death of cold. He was malnourished and his body was far too weak to fight off any disease he might contract.

 

Head still upturned, Hosenfeld barely registered that three guards were fast approaching him. He only noticed them when they had finally reached him and hoisted him up by his biceps. He didn’t struggle as they half dragged; half carried him out of the enclosed grounds and shoved him into the back of a covered truck.

 

“Captain,” Hosenfeld heard someone whisper, sympathetically, from next to him and felt a warm hand being placed flat against his back. Hosenfeld turned to see who was with him and was shocked to see the man’s kind, warm face right next to his after so long of seeing spiteful faces looking down at him.

 

“Szpilman?” Hosenfeld remembered whispering before his world went black and all thoughts escaped him.

 

* * *

 

 

When Hosenfeld awoke again he noticed two things, first, he was dry and warm and, secondly, he was most certainly not in a Soviet POW camp.

 

He was reluctant to move out from under the warm blankets at first, but decided he needed to know what was going on. He had no recollection of how he had gotten here. He slowly sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Tired feet hit the cold, wooden floor, making him cringe before he got used to the temperature. His body ached and protested being moved, but he stopped paying attention to it once he spotted the pitcher of water and glass left for him on the nightstand next to the bed. He quickly poured himself a glass and downed two more before his thirst was quenched.

 

Placing the glass back on the nightstand, Hosenfeld carefully tried to get out of the bed, but as he placed his whole weight on his legs, his knees buckled under him and he went tumbling to the floor.

 

He breathed out a soft curse as the aches and pains all over his body came alive and made him remember exactly what had happen to him the last couple of weeks. He cursed again when he heard footsteps come pounding his way.

 

“Captain!” Called the voice of the man who had run up the stairs and kneeled next to Hosenfeld. Hosenfeld turned to see who was next to him and was surprised to be staring straight into deep brown eyes.

 

“Szpilman?” Questioned Hosenfeld and it was then that the memories of that night in the back of a truck returned to him.

 

“Yes,” replied Szpilman, giving Hosenfeld a soft smile. “Here, let’s get you back into bed.” Szpilman wrapped an arm under Hosenfeld’s arms and lifted him back into bed.

 

“You saved me,” stated Hosenfeld, looking up at Szpilman, confusion and surprise written clearly on his face.

 

“Yes,” answered Szpilman, pulling the blankets over and around Hosenfeld. “It took me awhile to find you, but I did.” Hosenfeld settled back into bed and listened as Szpilman told him of what had happened since he had last seen Hosenfeld. “When I found you, you were half dead and I was afraid I had found you too late. I took you home and got you a doctor. He wasn’t sure if you were going to make it the first few days.”

 

Hosenfeld’s brow furrowed in confusion. “The first few days?” He asked. “How long was I asleep?”

 

“About a week. You had a fever, were malnourished, and had fits of all sorts. I cleaned you up, kept you warm, and did my best to keep you alive. After the first three days the doctor said you were in the clear, but we still have to make sure you eat enough to put on a healthy weight. Do you think you can eat something now? Or would you prefer to sleep some more?”

 

“Now is fine.”

 

“Good.” Szpilman smiled and turned to leave the room, but as he passed through the doorframe Hosenfeld called out to him.

 

“Szpilman. Thank you.”

 

“It is I who should be thanking you, Captain. You had no reason to spare my life back then. No reason to keep me hidden and provide me with food. But you did. A man as kind as you should never have to suffer like the way that I had.”

 

Hosenfeld watched Szpilman’s back as he disappeared down the hall and listened to his footsteps fade away. As he stared at the now empty doorway, his vision blurred and his eyes stung. He found that peculiar until he felt warm liquid slide down his cheeks. He raised a shaking hand to his cheek and quickly tried to wipe away the tears, but they only seemed to keep falling faster every time he tried to wipe them away. Soon, he was crying so hard that his whole body was shaking. But why was he crying? He should be happy, right?

 

He was so overwhelmed by a torrent of emotions that he didn’t even know why he was crying. He only hoped that he would stop before Szpilman returned. He didn’t want him to see him like this.

 

“Captain?” Asked a timid voice from the entrance of the bedroom. “Are you okay?”

 

Hosenfeld’s head snapped up to look at Szpilman and he viciously tried to wipe away the tears that refused to relent. In the next second, Szpilman was sitting next to him on the bed, hands gripping Hosenfeld’s wrist and pulling them away from his face.

 

“It’s okay. It’s okay,” Szpilman repeated over and over as he tried to get Hosenfeld to look at him. “I know how you feel. Please look at me.” Hosenfeld turned his red eyes and bruised face toward Szpilman who looked him over carefully, pity and understanding in his eyes. “Here.” Szpilman pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the tears on Hosenfeld’s cheeks before handing the handkerchief to Hosenfeld and turning around to dig through the drawer of the night stand.

 

Hosenfeld accepted the handkerchief, gratefully, with shaking hands and pressed it up to his eyes. The rate at which his tears were falling had slowed and now he could clearly see Szpilman. When he pulled the handkerchief away from his face he was surprised to see the once pristine, white cloth was now flecked with blood. His blood he soon realized. He was bleeding. But where?

 

Szpilman found what he was searching for and turned back toward Hosenfeld, bandages and ointments in hand. “You reopened the cut on your forehead when you rubbed your eyes. If you’ll allow me, I’ll bandage it up for you.” Hosenfeld didn’t say a word; he just slowly nodded his head.

 

Szpilman moved closer to Hosenfeld on the bed and Hosenfeld watched as his long and elegant fingers tilted his head up and he looked over the wound. Hosenfeld couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off Szpilman’s hands. Though large and weathered, they were gentle and precise in their work. A true pianist’s hands.

 

Szpilman cleaned the cut on his forehead before wrapping it in white gauze and helping Hosenfeld up into a sitting position on the bed. “I know you must be starving, but,” stated Szpilman picking up the tray of food he had sat down on the floor when he had seen that Hosenfeld had rubbed his cut open, “you’re not supposed to eat anything solid until I’m sure you can keep it down.”

 

Szpilman placed the tray on the nightstand and picked up the bowl of hot broth off it. Picking up a spoon, he handed the two items to Hosenfeld, who reached out for them, appreciatively. But Szpilman noticed how shaky his hands were and doubted he could hold them. And sure enough Hosenfeld dropped the spoon onto the bed, but thankfully Szpilman kept a hold of the bowl.

 

Hosenfeld looked, sadly, down at his lap and he retracted his hands and balled them into fist on his stomach. Szpilman knew it was hard for a man of Hosenfeld’s ranking to be seen so helpless. But Szpilman was not going to let the man starve just to save him his pride.

 

“Please,” whispered Szpilman, picking up the spoon, “allow me to help you.”

 

Hosenfeld met Szpilman’s eyes and after a short moment nodded his head. Szpilman dipped the spoon in the broth and scooped up a bit of the steaming, hot liquid and brought it up to his lips to blow it off before bringing it over to Hosenfeld’s.

 

Hosenfeld’s shaky hand reached up and covered Szpilman’s as the spoon drew closer to his lips and he guided it into his mouth. The process continued like this until the whole bowl of broth was gone and Hosenfeld’s stomach was full.

 

Szpilman placed the empty bowl with the spoon back on the tray and walked out of the room with the items, quietly closing the door behind him so that Hosenfeld could get some, undisturbed, sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It had been months since Szpilman had first rescued Hosenfeld and brought him home to live with him. And with Szpilman he stayed, in Szpilman’s now empty, family house, too big for any one person to live in, but when he and his family lived there together it almost seemed too small. Secretly, Szpilman was happy Hosenfeld had decided to stay with him, even after Hosenfeld had gotten a job and saved up some money. Szpilman didn’t know if he could handle being alone with his thoughts in a house that carried with it so many memories, good and bad.

 

“Szpilman?” Questioned a tall man with round spectacles.

 

“Hm? Yes?” Asked Szpilman, turning his attention toward his colleague.

 

“I was complementing you on that beautiful piece you played for us. You composed it yourself, correct? What do you call it?”

 

“I don’t know. I haven’t yet named it,” admitted Szpilman, a little embarrassed to find that he had been in such deep thought about Hosenfeld that he hadn’t realized someone was talking to him. He seemed to be doing that a lot more often lately.

 

“Well, do hurry up and pick a name for it, won’t you? We’d like you to play it on the radio as soon as possible. It was absolutely breathtaking. However did you come up with it?”

 

Szpilman blushed, he would never admit out loud that Hosenfeld had been a big part of helping him compose the piece nor would he admit that Hosenfeld was the main inspiration for it. “A lot of inspiration,” Szpilman honestly admitted.

 

“Well, keep whatever it was that inspired you around, because if you keep making pieces like that, you’ll be the next Chopin.”

 

His colleague tipped his hat to Szpilman and walked out the station’s doors. Szpilman put on his own hat and decided it was time he started heading back home too.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Hosenfeld finished filing the last reports and was ready to get out of the office for the night, his arms were tired from lifting boxes of newly printed newspapers. His back also hurt from all the bending over to pick up things and having to climb stairs all day. Don’t get him wrong, he wasn’t complaining about his job as a stock boy for the local newspaper, he was just tired and ready to go home.

 

Hosenfeld snorted at his own thought. Home. It seemed a little weird how easy Szpilman’s house had become home to him. Would Szpilman think him weird if he told him that? No, he’d probably just demand that Hosenfeld find a place of his own or move back to Germany, which he could. He now had enough money to do so if he wished, but why would he? Nothing waited for him back home. And besides, like he had said, Szpilman’s place had become home to him. But still, he probably should look into an apartment or something in the area, if he didn’t want to leave Warsaw. He didn’t want to overstay his welcome with Szpilman and lose a dear friend.

 

Hosenfeld picked up his coat off the coat rack and waving goodbye to one of the other employees, left the building. He decided to stop somewhere, anywhere that was still open, at least, and pick up something to eat. He was sure that Szpilman was on his way home too and probably hadn’t eaten anything for dinner yet either. He’d pick them both up something on the way home.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The front door creaked loudly as Szpilman entered the house, making him wish he had stopped by the store and bought some grease for the darn thing. He took off his coat and hat and hung them both up on the coat rack next to the door before moving more into the house.

 

“Hosenfeld?” Called Szpilman, checking the kitchen before poking his head over the rail of the stairs to look up at the second floor. “Wilm?”

 

_ Funny, _ thought Szpilman when he got no return call.  _ He should have been home by now. I wonder what keeps him. _

 

Figuring that he had been kept late at the press, Szpilman made his way into the kitchen to see what they had left to eat. Szpilman was starving, having only eaten breakfast early that morning and having skipped lunch.

 

Finding nothing, Szpilman sighed and decided to do something else until Hosenfeld returned. He didn’t know why he felt like doing nothing until Hosenfeld returned. Why he felt that nothing felt right unless Hosenfeld was there. Was it weird that, in such a short time, Hosenfeld had so integrated himself into Szpilman’s life that Szpilman wasn’t sure where he ended and Hosenfeld began? What was weirder still was that Szpilman had allowed him to do so and had no desire to ever part with him.

 

Sighing heavily, Szpilman found himself in the living room, standing in front of his grand piano. He took his seat at the short, wooden bench in front of the pristine, ivory and black keys. Before his fingers reached for the keys, though, his eyes looked up to the plush, grey chair that sat on the other side of the piano, its empty seat jarring something inside of Szpilman. That was Hosenfeld’s designated seat whenever Szpilman would play. Never had he once, since moving in with Szpilman, missed Szpilman play. He would always sit quietly in that seat; eyes glazed over like his mind had gone to a far away place, with a peaceful look on his face. Szpilman loved that look on his face. He loved even more the fact that he could make Hosenfeld feel that way. He silently wondered if he could make Hosenfeld feel like that any other way. Szpilman blushed at where his thoughts had led him and quickly shook his head to try and dispel such thoughts. He should not be thinking of his closest and dearest friend in such a way. But he couldn’t ever quite stop thinking about him like that.

 

Szpilman looked down at the keys of his beautiful grand piano and even though his fingers were still on his lap, he could hear its gorgeous melody ringing through his head as though he were playing it. He listened to the keys being played on his mind’s piano as imagines of Hosenfeld’s face flashed though his head. Why was it whenever he thought about Hosenfeld did his mind make the most beautiful melodies? Szpilman never understood it. In his own ears the melodies were always strange and beautiful. Elusive and ever-changing. And whenever he played these melodies it was like something deep within him was breaking free, if only for a short while. He had always felt that way when he played, but never on such a grand scale. Szpilman would even go so far as to say that the melodies came straight from his soul.

 

Szpilman could no longer deny it. He was in love with Hosenfeld. Szpilman let out a tired sigh just as a loud creaking sound was heard coming from the front of the house, signaling Hosenfeld’s arrival.

 

Szpilman quickly stood and walked toward the entryway of the house to greet his housemate. “Hey,” greeted Szpilman just as Hosenfeld began removing his coat.

 

“Oh, hey,” greeted back Hosenfeld, a smile instantly blossoming across his face and making Szpilman’s knees go weak. Szpilman mustered up a shaky smile of his own and prayed to God that his trembling wasn’t that noticeable. “I brought dinner. Are you hungry?”

 

“What?” Questioned Szpilman, for the first time that night looking away from Hosenfeld’s smiling face to notice the brown, paper bag Hosenfeld held in his hands.

 

“I haven’t eaten yet, so I stopped somewhere after work and picked us both up something to eat. Unfortunately, the only place that was still open this late was a small deli with only a few ingredients left. So I hope you didn’t have anything pacific in mind for dinner.”

 

“Oh, no,” replied Szpilman, finally registering what Hosenfeld was saying. “That’s fine. Thank you.”

 

“Good.”

 

Hosenfeld and Szpilman made their way into the dining room where they both took their respectable seats at the dining table and Hosenfeld handed a sandwich to Szpilman.

 

“So, you haven’t eaten yet either?” Asked Hosenfeld.

 

“No, I was held over at the station. Everyone wanted me to play that piece I wrote twice,” answered Szpilman before taking a bite of his sandwich.

 

“As they should, it’s a beautiful piece. What will you call it?”

 

“I’m not sure yet. Maybe you could help me with that. Since you did practically help me write it.”

 

“Nonsense. All I did was listen to you play. You did all the hard work yourself.”

 

_ Yes, but if you only knew how much you truly were a part of it, would you shun me? Hate me? _ Szpilman questioned to himself, eyes looking over Hosenfeld as he munched on his own sandwich.

 

“Music means nothing if no one is there to hear it,” stated Szpilman.

 

“Perhaps you are right, my friend,” replied Hosenfeld. They ate for a moment or two in silence before Hosenfeld spoke again. “I have been getting better at my Polish,” stated Hosenfeld. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m still atrocious, but the people at the press think that I am getting better.”

 

“You are,” commented Szpilman.

 

“Well, I guess I have my teacher to thank for that.” Szpilman kept his head down so that Hosenfeld would not see the blush that was crawling up his face. “But I’m good enough now to actually go out and hold a fairly decent conversation with someone.” Szpilman wondered where Hosenfeld was going with this conversation. The knot in the pit of his stomach said no where good. “And I have enough money now that I should be able to get out of your hair.” Szpilman didn’t like that thought, so instead of saying anything he just took another bite of his sandwich, which was now halfway gone. “But since my Polish is still not great, I was wondering if you would go with me to help me find an apartment?”

 

Szpilman looked up from his sandwich and forced a smile. “Of course. If that is what you really want. Then I will help you.”

 

Hosenfeld smiled back at him before returning his attention to his own food. “Good. And I’m sure you’ll be glad to get rid of me. I’m sure one of those lady composers at the radio station would love to help you refill this empty house with the sound of life again.” Hosenfeld looked at Szpilman with a small, suggestive smile. Szpilman blushed a deep red, but not from what Hosenfeld had said, and ducked his head back down. Hosenfeld laughed. “It’s okay. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, it’s natural.”

 

_ Natural.  _ The word echoed through Szpilman’s mind with flashes of men and women holding hands and little children running around their feet. A picture of Dorota on her cello also paced through his mind.  _ When I first met her, I was happy. She made me happy, but that was long ago. _

 

“You look sad, my friend. What bothers you? If my comment upset you in any way I apologize,” said Hosenfeld.

 

“No, no,” assured Szpilman. “It was not you.”  _ Never you.  _ “I was just remembering about this girl I knew before the war.”

 

“Oh.” Szpilman watched as Hosenfeld finished his sandwich, sat back in his chair, and looked curiously at Szpilman. “Would you tell me about her?”

 

Szpilman smiled sadly, remembering that Hosenfeld, at one time, had a wife and a few kids himself. Szpilman knew he missed them more than anything. Whenever he heard sobbing coming from his room he would kindly leave Hosenfeld to himself. Sometimes he wondered if that was the right thing to do.

 

“She played the cello,” started Szpilman. “I met her on the day the station got bombed. It wasn’t the ideal way to first meet a person, but it was memorable. She was such a beautiful composer, and a beautiful woman. I thought I loved her. But war brings out a person’s true nature. And I found that she wasn’t the one for me.”

 

“I am sorry, my friend. But it is still not too late to find love. You are still young enough and good enough looking to attracted a following of women. Not to mention, you are well to do and a wonderful composer. Surely a woman must be both blind and ignorant not to be attracted to you?”

 

“You flatter me, but that does not make up for my lack of experience with woman. In my entire life I have only ever courted a handful of woman, and even then I never got more than a few kisses from each.”

 

“Trust me my friend. It is not experience you lack, but the belief that any woman should ever desire you. Tell me, why do you hold yourself in such low regards?”

 

_ Because the person I truly want would never want me back. _

 

“Because I am waiting for the person I secretly love to finally notice me like that. Therefore, I have no desire to be with anyone else,” admitted Szpilman, though whether he was admitting it to Hosenfeld or himself he wasn’t sure.

 

“Ah, you have a love interest. Who?”

 

“If I told you then it would no longer be a  _ secret _ love interest, now would it?” Szpilman and Hosenfeld laughed, the sound making Szpilman warm and fuzzy inside.

 

“I supposed you’re right,” conceded Hosenfeld. “But either way, once I am out of your way, you will be free to bring her here whenever you want.”

 

Szpilman said nothing; he just stared silently down at his hands. “Wilm? Do you feel up to listening to me play for awhile? I wish to try and name my piece.”

 

“Nothing makes me happier than listening to you play.”

 

Szpilman smiled a true smile as he stood up from the table and made his way back into the living room and onto his piano’s bench. And this time when he looked up from the keys Hosenfeld was right where he should have been, sitting back casually in his gray armchair.

 

Szpilman let the melody carry him away as he played out his soul’s desire. If only Hosenfeld knew it was for him.

 

_ If I can have him no other way, _ thought Szpilman, still playing on the piano a work of his own creation.  _ At least I can have him like this. _

 

 

* * *

 

 

_ He’s so incredible when he gets swept away in the music, _ thought Hosenfeld, watching Szpilman’s hands, which Hosenfeld found secretly beautiful and elegant, move gracefully over the keys.  _ Or just incredible period. _

 

Hosenfeld didn’t know how he had done it. How he had survived all those years by himself during the war, running for his life, almost starving to death, and watching all his loved ones being killed right before his eyes.

 

Hosenfeld remembered when he was a POW for a shorter while than Szpilman had been running for his life, and he remembered how every day he wished to die just to end his suffering. How had Szpilman stayed so strong? How had he faced every obstacle life had to throw at him and still come out alive? Hosenfeld just didn’t know. But in the presence of this man he felt substantially inadequate.

 

The song ended and there were no words that Hosenfeld could say, to appropriate how he felt. ‘Bravo,’ didn’t seem to be enough, and ‘It was beautiful,’ didn’t nearly cover it. He just hoped Szpilman knew that his music had left him speechless.

 

“I’m afraid,” started Szpilman, looking down at the keys of the piano, “that nothing comes to mind. What about you? Any ideas for a name?”

 

“I too am afraid that you have once again left me speechless,” praised Hosenfeld as he watched color rise to Szpilman’s cheeks. It always amused him how easily he could cause Szpilman to blush. He also found it odd that whenever anyone else complemented him on his music he didn’t blush. It made him feel good to make Szpilman react that way.

 

“Well then it would seem that I am at a standstill. So, I see no reason for me to keep you up any longer. Shall we head off to bed?”

 

Hosenfeld nodded as he stood up from his chair and walked next to Szpilman up to their rooms. Hosenfeld stopped at his room and turned to say good night to Szpilman.

 

“Good night,” said Hosenfeld, opening his door.

 

“Good night,” replied Szpilman as he walked pass Hosenfeld, giving him one last smile before disappearing into his own room.

 

Hosenfeld closed and locked the door behind himself as he entered his room, taking off his boots and placing them neatly under his bed before changing out of his pants and shirt and into something a little more comfortable. Unfortunately, Hosenfeld found that he wasn’t tired yet.

 

He sat down on the edge of his bed and pulled out the only thing that had survived his time in the POW camp. A picture of his wife and kids. He always kept the picture somewhere safe, and the safest place he knew of was in the Bible next to his bed.

 

Hosenfeld sat silently staring at the faded picture in his hand, a familiar ache forming in his chest. How was he going to survive? He had only lasted this long thanks to Szpilman, but how was he going to live once he moved out? Sure, he could come over sometime, but over time Szpilman would move on, get married and have a few kids perhaps. His visits would become more of a bother than a welcome. And where would Hosenfeld be then? Alone and desolate in some apartment in a foreign country.

 

Hosenfeld sighed and turned to put up his picture and turn off the lamp next to his bed. He still sat on the edge of his bed even as his whole room was in encased in darkness. Sleep seemed to be avoiding him.

 

Hosenfeld was about to turn down the comforter on his bed and crawl under the sheets when shadows moving under his door caught his attention. Hosenfeld stopped moving and stared at the shadows and light that seeped under his door. He heard the click of a door being closed and the soft pad of feet passing by his door before all was quiet again.

 

_ Szpilman? _

 

Hosenfeld stood and quietly unlocked and opened his bedroom door and peeked his head out and down the hall. Szpilman was no where to be seen, so Hosenfeld swiftly exited his room and made his way down the stairs.

 

Taking slow and deliberate steps, Hosenfeld crept his way to the living room. Somehow he knew that if Szpilman had left his room it was because he wanted to play his piano. Hosenfeld stopped and slowly peeked his head around the corner and looked into the living room. Sure enough, Szpilman sat at his piano, eyes closed and fingers dancing over the keys. Though his fingers seemed to be picking out keys, they never once touched a key. They just stayed suspended above the keys, playing a song that only Szpilman could hear.

 

Hosenfeld leaned against the wall, imagining the sound of Szpilman playing the piano and watching the emotions that danced across Szpilman’s face. It was incredible how much Hosenfeld could see in Szpilman’s open face. Never before, when he played the piano, had Szpilman ever been so expressive. He was enthralling, hypnotizing, and dare he say it, beautiful.

 

Szpilman’s song stopped and his eyes slowly opened, at first their gaze never leaving the keys, but when they did Hosenfeld was surprised to find that their gaze drifted to the seat in which he normally sat when listening to Szpilman play. The look on Szpilman’s face as he stared at Hosenfeld’s empty seat was sad and almost forlorn looking.

 

Hosenfeld stayed still, leaning against the wall and watching Szpilman who had yet to notice him. What was bothering him so much that it kept him up at night to play silent tunes on his piano? It hurt Hosenfeld to see him like this, and he found himself wanting to take Szpilman into his arms and hold him close until he forgot whatever was bothering him.

 

Szpilman looked back down at the keys to his piano, fingertips lightly brushing over them. Hosenfeld pushed himself off the wall he was leaning against and quietly made his way over to where Szpilman sat.

 

Szpilman noticed something move out of the corner of his eye and looked up to see someone standing in front of him. Szpilman jumped and tried to move away quickly, until he realized that it was just Hosenfeld. “You scared me,” whispered Szpilman, taking deep breaths to calm his jumping heart.

 

“Sorry,” whispered Hosenfeld with a sheepish grin on his face.

 

“Did I wake you?”

 

“No, I just couldn’t sleep.”

 

“Me neither.”

 

Szpilman stared up at Hosenfeld, his breathing evened out by now. And God how beautiful did Hosenfeld look in the pale moonlight. Szpilman clenched his hands into fists to keep from reaching out to the man, but he didn’t have to because in the next moment Hosenfeld sat down next to him on the small bench.

 

Hosenfeld looked at the keys on the piano as Szpilman eyed him curiously before he turned and looked at Szpilman’s hands that were balled into fists on his lap. Hosenfeld reached out and took Szpilman’s hands in his own. Szpilman didn’t stop him as he eased his fingers out of fists.

 

Hosenfeld turned to look up at Szpilman as he ran a thumb over the knuckles of Szpilman’s hands and pulled them into his own lap. What was going on? Was this all a dream? Szpilman sat stock still and watched as Hosenfeld leaned forward and placed a very chaste kiss to his lips.

 

Szpilman’s heartbeats quickened and his eyes widened. Did Hosenfeld just kiss him? Yes he did, and he was now scooting closer to Szpilman on the bench, until their thighs were pressed flush against each other’s.

 

One of Hosenfeld’s hands released one of Szpilman’s and hooked behind Szpilman’s head to angle it into a better position before Hosenfeld’s lips were on his own again. It was a slow kiss, but intense nonetheless.

 

Szpilman felt warm tears escape from the corners of his eyes and then a calloused thumb brush away them on one side of his face.

 

When Hosenfeld felt tears against his thumb he instantly pulled away from Szpilman, breaking the kiss and releasing him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Hosenfeld chanted, moving away from Szpilman.

 

_ That was so stupid! _ Hosenfeld cursed himself.  _ So very, very stupid! _

 

“No. No,” replied Szpilman, wiping away his tears. “I’m sorry.”

 

“No. I had no right. I’m sorry.”

 

Hosenfeld stood to leave, but was stopped when Szpilman reached out and pulled him back down onto the bench. Hosenfeld turned to look at Szpilman as trembling hands reached up and cupped his face.

 

“I-I,” stuttered Szpilman before swallowing the dry lump in his throat. Not being able to voice what he felt, he just pulled Hosenfeld into another kiss. Szpilman could feel the tension in Hosenfeld ease away as he moved closer to Szpilman and wrapped him in his arms.

 

Hosenfeld tilted his head and deepened the kiss, brushing his tongue across Szpilman’s bottom lip causing Szpilman to let out a loud moan.

 

_ Oh God, _ thought Hosenfeld when he heard Szpilman moan.  _ If he keeps making sounds like that I won’t last long. _

 

Hosenfeld brushed his tongue against Szpilman’s bottom lip once more and Szpilman eagerly opened his mouth to him. Hosenfeld plunged his tongue deep into Szpilman’s mouth, memorizing the moist cavern and loving the way Szpilman tasted. Like whole wheat and something undeniable Szpilman.

 

Hosenfeld groaned in pleasure when he felt Szpilman’s curious hands, slowly, crawl under his shirt and slide up and down his chest. Hosenfeld tried to push Szpilman down onto his back, but the small bench they were on wasn’t going to be enough room for Hosenfeld to spread Szpilman out on it.

 

“Ah, Wilm,” said Szpilman when they broke their kiss for air. “Stay.”

 

“What?” Asked Hosenfeld breathily as Szpilman leaned up and placed soft kisses along his jaw line eliciting a string of moans from Hosenfeld.

 

“Stay here with me. I don’t want you to move out,” Szpilman explained, pulling away from Hosenfeld’s jaw to look the man in the eye.

 

“Good,” replied Hosenfeld. “Because I don’t want to leave you, Wladyslaw.”

 

“Call me Wladek.”

 

Hosenfeld smiled at that as he moved him and Szpilman down to the floor. It wasn’t very comfortable, but they had more room to spread out there. Hosenfeld pulled off his shirt and watched as Szpilman’s eyes roamed over the expanse of flesh that was offered to him. It sent a pleasurable shiver up Hosenfeld’s spine. Hosenfeld moved back down and took Szpilman’s lips once more as Szpilman’s hands tangled in his hair.

 

Szpilman loved the fact that Hosenfeld had let his hair grow out a bit. It was still neatly kept and cut, but now Szpilman had something to hold onto. Szpilman purred as Hosenfeld pulled him out of his shirt and laid kisses down his chest and stomach.

 

“I-I wrote,” stuttered Szpilman as Hosenfeld moved back up his body.  _ God why is it so hard to form a coherent thought?  _ “Piano piece. You were… Ah, my inspiration.” 

 

Hosenfeld stopped teasing Szpilman’s nipple with his tongue when he heard that. He looked up at Szpilman and Szpilman looked down at him through dark, lust filled eyes. “Um,” started Szpilman again. “I’ve wanted… I’ve wanted you like this for awhile now.”

 

“Me too,” whispered Hosenfeld, placing a soft kiss to the hollow of Szpilman’s neck before his hands found the button to Szpilman’s pants and started working on it.

 

Szpilman groaned as Hosenfeld’s knuckles brushed against his need that was pressing hard against the fabric of his pants. He would have been embarrassed had it not be for the fact that he could feel Hosenfeld’s own need pressing against his thigh. And it only seemed to arouse him more to know that he made Hosenfeld that way.

 

“Wilm,” stated Szpilman, nervously, as he felt Hosenfeld pull down his pants and underwear. “I-I’ve never been with a man before.”

 

“That’s okay, neither have I,” confessed Hosenfeld. “I’ll go slowly. You tell me if you’re uncomfortable and we’ll stop. But until then we’ll just play it by ear. Is that okay with you?”

 

Szpilman looked anxiously up at Hosenfeld whose warm smile reassured him that Hosenfeld would never do anything to hurt him. So, Szpilman nodded his consent and Hosenfeld’s eyes slowly wandered down Szpilman’s body, taking in every curve of muscle, every pale scar, and every freckle that flecked his body.

 

Szpilman squirmed under Hosenfeld’s scrutiny and found it unfair that he was the only one completely naked. Szpilman moved his shaking hands to Hosenfeld’s pants and quickly undid them. Hosenfeld raised and help Szpilman pull off his pants.

 

Once he was freed from his pants, Szpilman took Hosenfeld’s cock in hand, causing Hosenfeld to gasp in pleasure. Szpilman’s ministrations were awkward and clumsy at first, but once he learned what twisting his wrist one way did to Hosenfeld, he had Hosenfeld reaching his climax quickly.

 

“Stop,” panted Hosenfeld. “Stop. If you keep that up I won’t last long.”

 

Szpilman grinned. “I thought that was the idea.”

 

“Yes, but not before you,” informed Hosenfeld, gripping Szpilman’s own cock and making Szpilman arch off the floor at the contact.

 

Hosenfeld attached his mouth to the expanse of smooth flesh on Szpilman’s neck, when Szpilman threw his head back in ecstasy.

 

They both moaned loudly as they both reached their ends, each thinking what an incredible feeling it was to be held by the one you loved.

 

Sweaty and panting, Hosenfeld rolled off of Szpilman and lay next to him on the cool wooden floor. Hosenfeld reached out an arm to Szpilman and pulled him over to him, placing his head on his chest and a gentle kiss to the top of his head.

 

Listening to Hosenfeld’s slowing heartbeat; Szpilman was struck with a sense of calm and peace that he hadn’t felt since the war.

 

“We should move to a bed,” commented Szpilman.

 

“Yes, but later, meine Leibe,” replied Hosenfeld, sleepily, wrapping his arm tighter around Szpilman.

 

Szpilman smiled contently and settled more comfortably against Hosenfeld’s chest. Really, he was right. There was no reason they had to move right then.

 

-Das Ende- 

-Owari-

-Fin-

 -End- 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please considering taking a moment to leave some feedback. Comments and reviews by my readers is how I learn what my readers like and don't like to read about. 
> 
> And if you spot any grammar mistakes(because i tend to make a lot of those) please let me know and I'll try and fix them! Thank you!


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